The Likewise of Fire and Ice
by Sejour Avec Moi
Summary: Seto knows that Jou is burning a hole through the very person that he is. So he’ll freeze the blonde into non-existance. Puppyshipping.


I generally dislike things such as this

**The Likewise of Fire and Ice**

**Seto knows that Jou is burning a hole through the very person that he is. So he'll freeze the blonde into non-existance. puppyshipping**

**I generally dislike things such as this. But I have to get back into the habit of writing before I can start all those epics I wanna do. Small little clichéd things as this normally do the trick. I'm sorry to pester you all with these. They're just practice.**

**In other news (sorry I gotta, brag) I GOT INTO FUCKING Interlochen ARTS ACADEMY! HELL YEAH! AND NOW I'M BACK IN TRINIDAD CHILLIN WITH MAH HOMIES! **

**:coughs: So yeah. On with my shitty fic.**

**TO CARLY, MY BUDDY WHO I MISS LIKE CRAZY **

**And Shannon. Because all puppyshipping things go to this child DDDD. Are shitty CAPRE rewrites over yet, senpai?**

_Give. Give with your whole heart, through every season._

(f)(i)(r)(s)(t) (d)(e)(g)(r)(e)(e)

Trained eyes dance in anger, and arms windmill in front of the wild child, and he comes careening towards the other, his mouth bent into something hateful as blonde, shaggy hair affronts his face, serving as a curtain and darkening the normally cheerful features. The thick brows are furrowed. Every moment and every movement is like a flare of fire, every turn and step random and sharp, like a flint.

The other watches him charge towards him, mouth set. His own actions are swift, but clean, as though they are cut from something rigid and precise. Cold, calculated, perfect timing: the brunette grabs the boy's wrist in something like a frigid vicegrip, and he does not let the difference in body temperature allude his mind. What is in his hand- his cold hand, manicured and elegant- is grimy and calloused with masticated nails, and _so_ hot.

His blue eyes linger plainly on the face for a moment, as if he is demurely trying to understand it: it's a carnal mask, tanned and sunburned and homey and humble and alien and terribly, terribly honest. The frankness of it has him briefly taken aback, and only internally, but he recovers in time to catch the other incoming fist. He remains unperturbed as the other lurches forward, areas of skin making contact, the blue uniform material unable to deny the clash and the static between them.

His smell is both saline and cheap: sweat, soap, cheap cologne. The tall boy bends back his arm, leaning in just as the fascination lingers dangerously, and then disappears.

There are freckles on the bridge of the blonde's nose, and his lips part to let him pant for a moment.

"Yer a bastard."

His breath was heady, filling his nostrils, smelling of doublemint.

The brunette's vacancy bent and quickly accommodated a sneer. His changes in emotions are quick, and succinct, audible snaps could be attributed to them.

"Such a pity."

The words are a monotone, low and vaulted from the back of an arched, feminine neck. They feel physically cold, or, comparably, colder, as they leave the already frosty lips.

Russet eyes smolder through, leaving burn holes in the nothingness inside. Every effort, every moment feels as though he has to thaw and re-thaw. The random blazes, he knows, may be too much to handle. If he dumbs them down now, they won't do too much damage in the long run.

"I hate you."

"Likewise."

(s)(e)(c)(o)(n)(d) (d)(e)(g)(r)(e)(e)

The raucous laughter, too, has spiked moments, like excited, jumpy fire. The brunette doesn't like the other close to him. The freckles stand out on him like embers, and his eyes that watch the silver screen intently are like hot coal, even in the darkness of the cinema. The smiles that were feeble before seem predatory now, because they are a danger. The colder one found himself in this situation because he had to diminish the other in some way. Even through this. He had destroyed so much already. If things were allowed to go on any longer, it would be irreparable.

The blonde diverted his attention, giving the taller boy a sunny smile that could have blinded him. Blue eyes were on him immediately, little shards of ice in a vitreous humor, freezing anyone they lingered on. With the exception of the boy next to him, who seemed to burn through quite nearly any and everything. The blonde affably rested a hand on the other's wrist. He hissed in turn, knowing there would be blisters later, that perhaps it would scald…

"Try lightenin' up, will ya? It's a comedy, fer cryin' out loud."

"I dislike these kinds of movies," he said stiffly, quietly, having the civility to not disrupt the film for the other movie-goers.

He knew his words could have been more frigid.

The male next to him grins, as though intentionally undermining his defense. He leans over, giving him a quick, chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth.

Boils and burns, he would check later.

Pieces of him inside are being devoured by bright red, curling into ebony and falling to posthumous ash. He was not stupid and would not ask, in bafflement, what was happening to him. He knew, and he would address it.

"Yer taste in movies are shit."

Another audible 'snap', a crack of the ice, renting through the air. He considers how raw he feels inside, rime hands cupping the sides of the vibrant, boyish face. He presses his lips against the other's, tersely, and knows that there is a slight mathematical possibility that he is losing his mind when he hears the sizzling skin.

There are risks involved. He would have to be further damaged to ultimately rectify the situation. If his calculations were right, he would emerge from the fire better than when he went in.

Pressing and licking, cold muscle invading and dominating and freezing over, cold wet and hot wet, mingling in with the measured passion, with the blonde's unguarded response. He would frost the blonde's mouth shut, so he could do no more damage. He feels the pressure drop, feels the temperature decline. He smiles before he withdraws, knowing that the eyes that will look back at him in bewilderment will be extinguished.

"Likewise."

(t)(h)(i)(r)(d) (d)(e)(g)(r)(e)(e)

The bed sheets around him are steaming- fire and ice do battle, each thrust in him like a white-hot brand. There is no inner composure to be kept, so he relies on the outer façade of ice, giving meager grunts of pain even though he is being conquered. His defenses now are feeble, the wall of hoarfrost becoming thinner and thinner. The vapor around him is disorienting, and- snap- he abruptly sits up, demandingly, authoritatively kissing the other. He feels sharp, long nails rake down his back, and then remembers his own nails, neurotically bitten down.

He would not waste away like this. He could not melt away.

The roles could not have been reversed. Not like this.

The blonde pulls away, as though he is the one controlling the situation. His eyes are dancing flint and his face is so frank like an open furnace, and the brunette realizes that it's happening all over again…

"I ain't gonna hurt you."

He says this, throatily, as though it's pacifying, like it's a cleansing fire that's supposed to singe away his worries.

The numbers are not in his favor, sweaty and naked, there on the bed. He wants a wintry rebuttal, but knows that he is at that point where he is somewhat incapable of stopping the other.

He mutters "likewise," before toppling him, biting his neck, willing it to turn to ice, before it is too late…

(b)(u)(r)(n)(t)

The horror with which he regarded him was like a blazing wildfire, and it razed the remaining surface.

The brunette would squint if he did not know that that was somehow admitting formal defeat.

He schooled his face into nothingness. The nothingness of inside.

Somewhere along, he had the brilliant notion of outing the blonde's fire with the melted ice before he was submerged… He had begun the customary computations when the stark fact stuck him that it would require less of… everything to simply not surface. The water was cool and familiar against his burns…

He was a logical man. He did not argue with logic.

The other's words were fraught with emotion, infernal and total and pertinent and completely accusatory…

"I thought ya said ya weren't gonna hurt me?"

Angry, hot tears began to stream from the enraged brown eyes.

The brunette could only regard the other blankly.

"Likewise."

**Whoa! Dominant Jou! Extreme points for me. xD**

**I actually really like this. It's good for the first fic I've posted in a year.**

**There was some super symblolism going on (particularly with the tenses). I hope I did this right, and that it wasn't too short. **

**Please give me your opinion. It didn't turn out like the others I read. They made Jou into the typical bitch of the relationship. xD I hope Seto isn't too OOC…**

**This whole thing was typed while listening to Morgenstern by Rammstein :makes weird face: The operatic part fit with the image of Seto drowning :makes happy face:**

**xThexMisconstruedxCarousel does not own Yuugiou.**


End file.
